


From London, With Love

by anonymousmadame2911



Category: Chris Evans (actor) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heart Break, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 14:58:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21163538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousmadame2911/pseuds/anonymousmadame2911
Summary: Chris gets the job of his dreams and so do you. One in Alabama and another in London.





	From London, With Love

“Babe, I’ve got some great news. Hi.”

He was sitting on your futon that you had picked up off of the side of the road in college. You had too many sentimental memories attached to it to get rid of it. 

“Oh! Me too. I think. You first. How was your day?”

You leaned over the arm of the futon and gave him a soft peck on the lips. You’d met him at one of your book signings. Who even knew those were still a thing?! You had struggled your whole life with trying to find a job where you fit in and were comfortable while writing on the side. But you’d finished a novel. A young adult novel about a girl who went from virgin sacrifice to the queen of hell. It flew off the shelves. Hollywood came knocking to make a movie. You’d written a sequel and were touring the US, when you met him. He had stood in line to get an autograph for his nephew. He invited you out for a drink after. You’d said no. He said that he’d just wanted to pick your brains about the book and that he was up as one of the potential directors and you’d be doing him a big favor. You had to drive to Cleveland the next day for your next signing. Your publisher, though they loved you, still wouldn’t spring for airline tickets. 

“I really shouldn’t. I have a 10 hour drive tomorrow. I’ve gotta be in Cleveland by 7 tomorrow.”

“Just a coffee?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Fine. I’ll meet you at the bar of the hotel across the street. It’s the Hotel Vida. You see it?”

You pointed and as he leaned down and turned his head, you smelled his cologne. Hugo Boss. The infamous panty-dropping cologne. Any time any guy wore that cologne around you, you knew you were in trouble. OK. Fine. A one-night stand and you would load up on coffee during your drive tomorrow. But it wasn’t. He was great. Perfect. Even. Your first celebrity crush feelings wormed themselves back into your heart. You’d tried to extricate yourself from him. But it was impossible. At the bar, he had his arm around the back of your chair and you were leaning over touching his thigh. He was intoxicating. 

“Well, it’s late. I have to go.”  
“Oh yeah. Sorry. I’ll walk you back to your room.”  
“No! Uh…no. Thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I can manage myself. It’s literally just a walk up the hallway.”

You’d quickly thrown a $5 bill on the bar to tip the bartender and walked quickly out of the bar. He kept up easily, because of course he did. He had those damn long legs and you were about 6 inches shorter than him. You snatched your key card out of your bag and slammed it into the door, struggling to get that green light to switch on. Of course it didn’t. He came up quickly behind you and you turned to say goodnight. Only, you didn’t get it out of your mouth before his lips were on you. He pressed you up against the door. You melted into him. He was so big…and muscular. You felt so…tiny and small. Like Tinker Bell or Thumbelina. You’d never felt like this. You’d always had guys who were close to your height. 

“I think I’d better go.”  
“Yeah, just one more thing—”

He was on you against with that traitorous cologne. What DID they put in it? A mind eraser, surely? His hands gripped your ass, pulling you into him. You were done. As the cliché goes, stick a fork in you, you’re done. 

“Let me just—I just—”

You cleared your throat.

“Do you have condoms?”  
“Shit. I can run to the 7-11. Don’t go anywhere.”  
“Are you gonna remember the room number?”  
“Probably not. You should give me your number in case I need to call you.”

So, that’s how he’d gotten your number. He’d come back with a box of black and gold Trojan XL Magnums.

“Only 3? You think that’s enough for tonight?”  
“Well—”

He’d kissed you again and pushed you back on the bed. He tripped over your shoes attempting to get on the bed. You giggled into him as he crawled up the bed to you. And that’s how the first year of your relationship went. Giggles. Laughs. Kisses. You’d have to deal with the occasional asshole fan who would take a picture without asking. That really pissed you off. Or the paparazzi. Or the people who said “You deserved that. You wanted that. That’s why you got involved with a celebrity.” You couldn’t help your heart.   
You and Chris had had a few tiffs here and there. But, the two of you had developed an understanding that you’d check-in with each other before any major life decisions. At least, you did. You had assumed that he did too. You insisted on taking it slow. So, you hadn’t met his family or any of his friends yet. You wanted to see what the first year would bring. How you traveled together. How a romantic weekend away together would go. How a week-long vacation would go. You’d had an experience where you’d planned a romantic weekend in a gorgeous hotel, two nights out salsa dancing, clubbing and going out to eat, and the guy had chosen to: 1. not show up on time because he’d stayed up all night playing video games with his friends (even though he knew you planned this) and 2. he’d had 24-hour desk duty, so he’d had to leave early. Don’t date a guy in the military. 

“So, how long will you be in Alabama?”  
“A year. It’s that script I showed you—the one I asked you to read—well they asked me to direct.”

This wasn’t going the way he had planned. He ran his hands through his hair nervously. You quietly slid your heels off and left them by the door. You walked into your bedroom and dropped your bag in the closet. The maelstrom whirled inside of you. You sat on your bed staring out the window trying to figure out your next words. 

“I—you didn’t think to check with me?”  
“I—”  
“What if I asked you to stay?”  
“Babe, come on. Don’t be like that.”  
“Like what?” you whispered.

You resumed staring out the window. He’d sat on the bed next to you. You couldn’t look at him or you’d start crying. You had a lot of questions to ask before you’d kick him out. 

“Babe. Talk to me.”  
“We won’t make it through the year.”  
“Sure we will. We’ll talk on the phone, skype, Facetime—there’s so much technology now.”

You knew him. In a year, you’d seen how he was when he was filming on location. He barely had time to talk. He’d sent a text, but nothing more than a “Good morning” or a “How’s it going?” A year? No way. 

“I’ve had an offer for a project in London. I was going to talk to you about it first before I made any decisions, but I’m moving. Since we’re now you and I and not us. We’re not going to survive the year if you’re in Alabama and I’m in London.”  
“What—I don’t get it—are you sayin’—you’re saying that you want to break up because I want to take a job in Alabama?”  
“I’ll be in London and you’ll be there—”  
“You’re just being dramatic now. Are you trying to punish me for something?”  
“No. I—Chris. I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday. The doctor did a blood test and I wanted to wait and tell you, because the first pregnancy usually doesn’t take, and you know I have an IUD—”  
“You’re rambling. Are you trying to tell me that you’re pregnant?”  
“Yeah.”  
“But you said you have an IUD.”  
“I do. That’s what the appointment on Friday is for. To decide what to do with the IUD and the pregnancy and what my next steps are. You don’t have to go. You can if you want to, but—”  
“Am I the father?”  
“You know—you KNOW that before you I hadn’t had sex for 3 years—so it’s either yours or it’s the immaculate fucking conception. You know what?! I’ll go on my own. I’ll decide on my own. You can delete my number. You can block my number. Please. Please! Get fucked.”  
“But we’re still gonna stay friends right?”  
“No. You know I don’t stay friends with my exes. I have always been in love with you. I don’t know any other way to be with you. You can stay for tonight, but you need to pack up and leave. I’ll give you until Friday evening.”

That was your Monday night. The rest of the week was scrambling to get your job in London nailed down, schedule a moving company to come in (not hard for a measly one-bedroom) and schedule a pet relocation for your dog. Your nights were spent crying, inconsolable. You had no idea where Chris was all day or even some nights. It was no longer your problem. Friday, he skipped the doctor’s appointment and when you got back, all his things were out. You blocked his number, blocked his friends and siblings from your Facebook page. By the end of the month, you had all of your things packed up. You had negotiated with your property management company to have someone else take over your lease. You cried the entire way to LaGuardia. The Blue Shuttle driver didn’t say much to you, the awkwardness permeating the air. You cried your way through the entire flight to Heathrow.   
The black cab pulled up to a two bedroom, two story townhouse in northern London. It wasn’t the wealthy part of London, but you didn’t care. You had adjusted your mind set and you were going to make the most of your year here and hopefully by the end of it, you’d be staying longer for more jobs and more money. The townhouse was lush on the outside: loads of greenery and big floor to ceiling windows. Rumor had it that a famous director owned it. You’d do some sleuthing to see if you could find anything on it inside the house. You were a great PI. The backyard wasn’t huge, but it was big enough for you to sit out and watch your dog run around. She was small too, so she didn’t need a lot of space.   
You slept like the dead your first month. You were exhausted from your pregnancy, the move and your break-up. You took meetings at the BBC offices. They always sent a car for you. You felt so spoiled. Your first doctor’s appointment in London showed that the baby was hangin’ on. You were 5 months along, so you decided to at least buy a crib. In case the baby did decide to hang on and stick around for a bit. You had given up on Chris. You made no effort to contact him or any of his family. You actively avoided seeing pictures of him online. The reminder was too painful, so you threw yourself into your work. The writing team would come to your house and stay late to finish edits. They couldn’t believe how hard you worked. When they weren’t there, you were working on two new books. You worked yourself straight into exhaustion and blacked out on the floor of your bathroom. You woke up three hours later: wet, cold, with shampoo still in your hair and the water still running. You finished your shower. This was the wake-up call you needed. You had to take care of yourself. Otherwise, you’d end up blacking out and cracking your skull open.   
You had gotten lucky by all accounts. Your labor lasted only 30 minutes. You’d given birth on the floor by the front door. You didn’t even make it to the hospital. Your poor neighbors. They’d heard you screaming and called for an ambulance. The poor EMTs had whacked you with the front door, trying to get to you.

“Come arou—ound the side,” you panted.  
“Yup. Is everyone ok?” He mumbled through the door.  
“So far…yes…I need to be sti-itched up. Ah! I think—the placenta—”  
“We got him.”

The EMTs had to crawl over the fence and busted the lock on your sliding door. Your dog barked up a storm at the intruders. You were grateful that she was all bark and no bite. She backed down when you called her to you. They lifted your baby out of your arms and checked you out. They let you walk to the ambulance on your own before telling you to lie on the gurney. Seemed a bit of an over-reaction since you’d already given birth. The birth certificate had been written up with Chris as the father. But, looking around the hospital room, it would be just you and your baby boy. A piece of you would always love Chris, but he hadn’t been there for one of the most important moments of your life. You realized that you’d never be able to count on him. So, you finally let him go.


End file.
